


affinities begin with letters of the alphabet

by cosetties



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Communication Failure, Fluff, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:58:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosetties/pseuds/cosetties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody ever expects to get kidnapped and held as blackmail against their shitty politician of a father, but at least Les Amis' leader is the hot blond Grantaire may have been just a little bit obsessed with these past few weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the line in Grantaire's description that talks about Orestes and Pylades. The fic is based on [this tumblr post](http://hermesgodofthieves.tumblr.com/post/56563466983/but-imagine-an-les-mis-au-where-r-is-the-son-of), though I haven't decided whether it will be as fluffy as the post or not. (But let's face it, all I can write is fluff.)
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [atheartagentleman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman), without whose help this fic would suck a lot more.
> 
> Should I really be starting a new multichapter with school coming up? No. Will I do it anyway? Apparently.

The first time Grantaire meets Eponine Thenardier, she tries to seduce him.

His lap full of drunk girl and about one beer away from joining her, Grantaire leans back in his chair and sighs deeply, letting the air out of his lungs like a popped balloon. She’s wearing some sort of lace confection of a shirt, tight leather pants, and sky-high stilettos. Emotional drunk, judging from her red-rimmed eyes.

A quick introduction was all Grantaire had gotten before she had straddled him, grinding down a little as she climbed into his lap. Her breath smells like tequila, and her fingernails are claws against his forearms. He zeroes in on the full lips, accentuated by bright red lipstick, that are trying to attack his own. Her shirt rucks up, and his hands meet skin when they snake around her, trying to push her away.

The bass of the music pounds through his head, and the alcohol in his system spins his thoughts in ten different directions. He is dizzy with the haze of the beer and the atmosphere. The glint of her lip rings, pierced snakebite style, is all he can see.  

Her mouth brushes the shell of his ear, her breath warm against his skin. “You’re delectable.”

“Um,” Grantaire stammers out, his throat dry. “Shouldn’t we, uh, talk first?”

Eponine sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth, a mix of seduction and hesitation. While not fundamentally opposed to beautiful women, the running flashbacks of the Greek god whose schedule Grantaire had inadvertently memorized in his aimless trips around the city kills the mood somewhat.

It had started with morbid fascination, the kind of game he likes to play with unattainable people. Spot sex personified on the subway, running fifteen minutes late to class. Casually redirect his routes and time his comings and goings to fit their schedule. Sketch said person. Throw away the sketches when he convinces himself of their utter mediocrity. Cry silently when he realizes the person had been unattainable for a reason.

The blond guy, though, with his phone constantly pressed against his ear and his permanent expression of disdain for anyone who tries to cross his path, was on a whole other level. In the past three weeks, Grantaire had filled up at least two sketchbooks, which was nice productivity-wise but did nothing but fuel his unhealthy obsession.

“Makes sense that out of all the pretty people you’ve drawn, you want into this guy’s pants the most,” Cosette had said, after she’d found the sketchbook he kept underneath his pillow, where few cared to look. He’d kept it there for a reason, but Cosette had never been one to follow the rules of logical reasoning.  “You know what people call this? Masochism.”

Grantaire slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles, but she twisted her way out of his grip. “I call it perfectly harmless appreciation of beauty.”

Letting out a disbelieving snort, Cosette just tucked the sketchbook back underneath his pillow and winked.

What had started out as a mild aesthetics-based crush exploded into full-on obsession when he’d finally heard the guy speak. He had a voice. Gruff, but not raspy. Honeyed, but not cloyingly sweet. His mouth formed words like art, and even a mere “I’ll pick up the groceries” sounded pants-droppingly obscene.  

The voice and the image of the man worm their way into Grantaire’s brain at inconvenient moments like this, and if Grantaire ever works up the courage to approach him, he’d be caught between kissing him and punching him in the throat for taking over his mind.

“You’re drunk,” Grantaire tries to tell Eponine now, but the finger pressed over his lips silences him. Assertive, he likes that. They would probably be good friends, once she, you know, stopped trying to have clothed sex with him.

“No, I’m not,” she slurs. “Perfectly,” she kisses him full on the mouth and then disconnects with a loud pop, “sober.”

“Look, as pretty as you are, you’ll probably regret this in the morning. And, you look sad.” Grantaire gently slides her hands off his shoulders and captures them at her sides.

He has a conscience sometimes, fuck you.

She blinks in surprise, and there’s a moment there, a spark of recognition and sobriety underneath the haze of inebriation.  “Is that what you say to all the girls?”

Before he can answer, a large, meaty hand plants itself on his forearm. The hand is connected to a tattooed arm, and that arm, in turn, is connected to a man with a buzz cut and a mouth twisted into something ugly.

Eponine may be drunk, but she’s not stupid, so she scurries off Grantaire as fast as she can.

“What the fuck are you doing with my girlfriend?” The guy towers over Grantaire, and the muscles of his arms strain against his black shirt. He snuffs out the cigarette in his mouth, his fingers dig even further into flesh.  Buzz Cut’s breath smells of vodka.

Grantaire has never been so glad that he’s been a fighter all his life. Buzz Cut isn’t used to resistance, so when Grantaire throws his weight to the side, he rips his arm from the man’s grasp. His fingernails leave marks.  

“Swear to God, I’m not looking for a fight, man—“

Buzz Cut grins, baring his teeth. He has nice teeth for a complete asshole. “Lucky for you, I am looking for a fight.”

Angry mountainous hulk vs. drunker-than-expected scrawny layabout who had given up boxing years ago. Grantaire has his money on the mountainous hulk himself, but who knows, this could be a Disney movie where the underdog pulls off a victory.

The alcohol dampens Grantaire’s coordination, but the leap out of the chair isn’t half bad. He raises his arms up, palms out, and angles his body away from Buzz Cut. Keeping his legs spread apart, he bends his knees.

Buzz Cut grunts and flexes his biceps. The stereotypical skull and crossbones tattoo on his arm ripples. “Fuck you.”

Now is probably a shit time to point out that Grantaire had been trying to discourage Eponine.

Out of nowhere, a fist swings at Grantaire’s head. He dodges it, ducking under, but he must have had more drinks than he remembered. His reaction time is slow. The right hook clips the top of his head.

In no state to pack a powerful punch, Grantaire dances on the balls of his feet, leaping out of the way whenever Buzz Cut makes a move at him.  He occasionally strikes out, aiming for the nose and lips, but his attempts never come to fruition, and anyway, his limbs feel like they’re moving through molasses, and his entire body sags under an invisible weight. Alcohol hasn’t affected him so strongly in a while.

As Grantaire tries to figure out how to send signals to his arm that will actually arrive on time, Buzz Cut manages to land a punch to Grantaire’s stomach. Instinct tells him to tighten his muscles, but instinct kicks in a second too late, so he flies back against the chair he’d been sitting on, winded. He sucks in deep breaths, but his lungs refuse to cooperate.

Smirking, Buzz Cut takes his time ambling over to Grantaire before putting him in a headlock. His arm presses against Grantaire’s throat, not quite hard enough to cut off his air supply, but close.

Rolling her eyes, Eponine hooks her arm through Buzz Cut’s, subtly pulling him away. “Oh come on, Bahorel, isn’t this enough for a grand display of masculinity?”

“Not until the little twerp understands that he can’t hit on my girlfriend.”

“You’re a dick. I don’t even know why I put up with you.”

Security shoves its way through the crowd that had gathered at the scene of the fight without Grantaire noticing. Grantaire’s not quite sure whether he’s relieved for the intervention or disappointed to be deprived of his chance to kick Bahorel’s ass, but they’re kicked to the curb before he can decide.

“Don’t come back!” the manager calls out behind them, but Grantaire is a rover, he doesn’t mind. He knows the best places for everything, and he can find a new venue to drink his troubles away with the snap of his fingers and the click of his ruby red slippers.

The move to his car is one part semi-dignified walk but mostly many parts uncoordinated stumbling. Grantaire’s world spins as he himself spins towards the sidewalk, throwing his arms out to catch himself before he can face-plant against the cement. It sends a jolt through his body.

“Shit,” he says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Usually it takes more than a couple of beers to get me like this.”

He’s not quite sure who he’s talking to, and Eponine and Bahorel must have left by now, but two strong arms haul him up by his armpits and pull him upright. His legs threaten to buckle again, but he finds himself leaning against Bahorel. The fuck, wasn’t the guy trying to kill him not five minutes ago? Nice 180-degree turn, he should really stick to his goals better.

“Have you called Enjolras?” Eponine’s voice rings clear in the silent night, her tone brisk and professional, nothing like the coquettish flirtations she’d used before. The slur has disappeared from her words. Well, if Grantaire can get drunk this quickly, it isn’t surprising Eponine can get un-drunk just as fast, haha, un-drunk’s a funny word isn’t it, Grantaire should totally make a bank of funny words—

Grantaire’s eyes drift shut, and he feels himself nodding off, pillowed on Bahorel. The thoughts in his mind go flying. The bruise on his stomach should be throbbing by now, but everything is numb.

“If you haven’t noticed, dear Eponine,” Bahorel shoots back. “I’m a little bit too busy dealing with a politician’s spoiled brat to call anyone, much less our fearless leader.”

“Did you have to punch him that hard?”

Bahorel shrugs. “He looks like he can take it.” He nudges Grantaire, who gives no response. “Hey, you can take it, right? Probably shouldn’t have punched you, but fighting. Fun.”

Eponine wraps her arms around Grantaire’s shoulders, and it’s kind of nice, in a strange sort of way. “Sorry about this. We had to find a way to get you out of there without arousing suspicion, and as you’re a very suspicious person, we couldn’t just, like, ask you to leave, so you know. The ends justify the means.”

Before Grantaire can ask what her ends are exactly, his brain shuts down as he drifts off against Bahorel’s chest. It is a disappointment of a pillow, a disgrace to pillows everywhere, but the offended huff Bahorel lets out almost makes it worth it.  

* * *

When he was six, Grantaire discovered his knack for drawing.

He blazes through the large, impersonal mansion like a fireball, fingers glued to every writing implement he could reach. It started with printer paper, then sketchbooks, then his mother bought him canvases and paint and that was that, he had reached the point of no return.

His father had tolerated it at first, like he’d tolerated so many of Grantaire’s antics. With indulgent smiles and imperceptible little shakes of his head, he withstood it, all the while complaining to his wife and friends about his wayward son. But only when his son expressed hopes of pursuing this for the rest of his life did Senator Grantaire speak up.

“It’s a waste of time.” Grantaire cringed when his father slammed the canvas against the table. He hadn’t had time to apply fixative to it yet, and the color smudged on his father’s fingers. “You could be pursuing something useful. Business. Politics. We’ve given you every opportunity you could ever want, and you choose to repay us with this?”

The Senator’s eyes softened then, and he bent down on one knee to ensnare Grantaire’s right hand between his palms. His voice soothed.

“Listen to me, forget about this. I’ll be running for the national seats soon. I can’t have a son pursuing such a frivolous activity.”

He smiled, and it was the grin that had captured millions of heart, reassuring the public that he would lead them to better lives and brighter futures. He had access to all the answers they could want. Even Grantaire wasn’t immune to wanting to please him at whatever cost.

“Okay,” he’d said that day.

Ten years old and already making life-altering decisions he would later regret. At least Grantaire is consistent in screwing himself over.

And “okay” had remained Grantaire’s answer, save for little experimental forays, until he picked up a spray can in his freshman year of college and set out to simultaneously destroy and create.

When he began to reach wider and wider audiences, a legend without a name who refused to be commercialized, the thought of his oblivious father always niggled at the back of his mind. Grantaire had never been the son his father wished for, no matter how hard he had tried to rectify this with school clubs, and nights spent poring over textbooks, and public events. His passions were useless, and he would never impact the world like his father, with his successful law firm and subsequent political career.

Maybe Grantaire had only been trying to prove the man who had all the answers wrong.

* * *

Grantaire wakes to binds holding his hands in place behind his back, a blindfold over his eyes, and what seems to be an argument over whose job it is to visit the store. He lunges forward in the chair experimentally, but can’t move more than a few inches before his shoulders begin burning with the effort. His back feels sore, held rigidly against the chair with plastic handcuffs. Something rumbles in his stomach, and he would have thrown up by now had he eaten recently.  

Grantaire’s pockets have been turned inside out and emptied. They’ve even made away with his new pack of Camel Lights.

The chair he’s seated on is hard, and the rickety thing squeaks softly when he shifts his weight. Someone here probably has the job of finding the most uncomfortable seating arrangement possible for any hostages they happen to pick up in bars.

“I’m not buying your tampons,” a male voice insists wearily. Grantaire can hear footsteps pacing back and forth. “It’s your turn.”

Eponine—the female voice is Eponine, he can tell from the distinctive roughness. “Well, I’m not buying your condoms. Size XXL, really? I’ve seen your dick, and it is not that big.”

“But you’re the only one of the few people who knows all the fair trade stuff Enjolras wants. Our only other option is nerding out over the joys of modern medicine. And moths. Again.”

The contrast between the inanity of the discussion and the ridiculous situation he’s in has Grantaire chortling, little gasps that turn into full-blown guffaws.

He must have been out for a while—his throat feels dry and he’s already beginning to crave. God, his kidnappers must have expected some sort of coddled rich kid, not a raging alcoholic with no filter and a knack for pissing people off. It’s a gift.

He learned long ago that he adds up to less than the sum of his parts. On him, hands made for crafting refuse to paint and draw the way he wants them to. A brain made for thinking refuses to lie still and absorb the information his father had always wanted him to learn. A mouth that can be put to so many uses debauches itself with a substance that will shorten his lifespan.

Eponine is the first to notice Grantaire’s laughter. “Oh, you’re awake.” When Grantaire’s head lolls forward, Eponine supports it, resting it against the back of the chair again.

“Don’t sound so disappointed. How long was I out?”

“Almost a day,” the man says apologetically. “Rohypnol knocks you out even more when you’ve been drinking.”

“So you kidnapped me with roofies.”

“Yeah, nothing personal. We can’t choose our fathers.”

Right. Grantaire should have known it had something to do with him. He really, really needs a drink, and that isn’t just the withdrawal speaking.

“So you’re, what, going to kill me to get back at my father? Torture me for information about the next bill he’s trying to pass? Make me your personal slave? Because, let me tell you, I don’t have the legs for a maid outfit. Or the waist. I could probably pull off heels though, don’t know, never tried.”

A door swings open, and someone says, in a voice more cheerful than a situation like this warrants, “No, we’re just going to use you to blackmail your father.”

Shit. Holy fucking shitcakes. Holy fucking shitcakes with extra frosting and outlined with strawberries.

It’s him. The blonde with the voice.

Grantaire fights to keep his own voice calm. “What for?”

“You can’t possibly not know—“ Eponine begins, but the blonde butts in.

“Your father has a history of taking bribes, especially from Patron-Minette, and they’ve gotten him to cover up for their money laundering scheme for years, in addition to adding to his own coffers through public funds.  The only reason we know anything is because we’ve heard firsthand accounts, but the claims are so nebulous that we can’t get anything concrete. If his own family refuses to speak up, it’s our prerogative to take drastic measures.”

He states the facts like Grantaire needs to be educated, but Grantaire has known, he’s known for almost two years now. In Enjolras’s eyes, he may be complicit to crime, but when smackdown of a villain will only cause another to take his place, what’s the point?

For the second time, Grantaire leans back his head and laughs so goddamn long his lungs feel close to bursting. He laughs until he’s wheezing, and every breath of air he takes to replenish his lungs burns as it flows down his trachea. So they’re movers and pushers, kids who want to change the world. He’s been kidnapped by fucking social justice warriors.

Strangely enough, that calms him.

“Dear old Daddy hates me. You forgot to check the most basic fact: whether he even thinks my life is worth it. Guess what, newsflash, it isn’t.”

There’d been a time when Grantaire wouldn’t even entertain the idea of his father’s lack of love for him, but he knows. Now.

Blondie sighs. “From what we can tell, you and your father are close. You rarely miss public appearances with him. It will do you no good to lie. You can take off his blindfold now.”

A hand rips the rag from his eyes, and he blinks, trying to acclimate to the light. The room spins once, twice, before he can regain his bearings.

Pink covers every inch of the room, neon, puke-inducing pink, the type one expects to find in Dolores Umbridge’s office. Other than the truly uninspired iron bars in the window, the room seems normal. Writing desk tucked away in a corner. Bed to his right side, covered in a Justin Bieber bedspread. A dilapidated couch stands next to the—is that steel?—door, where Eponine sits, staring at him with wary eyes.

“Lovely room, is this how you’re torturing me?”

“Sorry about the decor,” Eponine tells him. “We think...uh, our friend did it ironically.” She hesitates, glancing at the man standing next to Blondie out of the corner of her eye.

The brunette sniffs haughtily, but the wide grin after ruins the effect. “If you must address me by something, ‘Uh’ is simply not adequate. Try ‘Sex on Legs’ or ‘His Royal Majesty’ or, if it’s not too much of a mouthful, ‘The Guy Who Will Totally Fuck Shit Up But Will Do So Smiling and Looking Fabulous’. I’m not picky.”

Eponine is not impressed. “Enjolras, please inform our dear friend of his idiocy.”

But Grantaire has already stopped paying attention.

“Enjolras.” He tests the name in his mouth, not realizing he had spoken aloud before the blonde glares at him sharply. His eyes are blue of the piercing variety.

A red hoodie, ripped skinny jeans, and Converse seem inadequate attire for an avenging angel, but that’s what he is, all sharp lines and burning passion. While Eponine and the other man avoid Grantaire’s eyes, Enjolras meets them head-on, not a hint of guilt coloring his expression. A handgun rests in its holster against his leg, because Grantaire’s so dangerous, weaponless and tied up.

No one has ever claimed that Grantaire’s romantic whims would be good for him. Because he doesn’t just want to sleep with Enjolras, no, though he wouldn’t refuse. He wants to wine and dine him and figure out exactly what makes him tick.

“Ooh, possible extremist political group leader has a name! What’s next? Is he going to tell me his favorite color, favorite Power Ranger, how the hell he found out enough information to follow me these past few weeks?”

Enjolras winces, but he doesn’t deny the accusation.

Of all the dazzlingly romantic locales in the world, fate had chosen a hostage situation in Middle of Nowhere, America as the place Grantaire would meet the future love of his life. He had never believed in the One myth, but fuck it, those delicate features, that hair, that voice, hell, even his graceful gait ruins every other man on earth for him.

“Oh come on,” he drawls. Grantaire scoots as close to the edge of the chair as he can. “You know everything about me. My class schedule, the routes I take, my public relationship with my father. Wouldn’t be surprised if you knew my masturbatory habits too. I would give them to you, you know. In great detail, if you ask really nicely. We could be that kind of couple, Blondie.”

His voice holds too much hope, so the joke doesn’t quite come through.  

The set of Enjolras’s shoulders is tense. “I have a name.”

“And should you really be telling me that name?”

Enjolras shrugs, a full-bodied motion that has Grantaire memorizing how his muscles move together, information to be stored away until he has access to a sketchpad and pencils. “Les Amis will probably go public soon, so why not?”

Well, add another strawberry to that shitcake because fucking Les Amis. He’s heard the rumors, has even come close to meeting them face-to-face, of course he has. Underground extremist group, passive-aggressive hacktivists, inspirational blog posts whose source no one could ever track down. Bunch of whiny rich kids with too much time on their hands, if you ask Grantaire. No one ever does, but if they had bothered, he could write treatises on idealistic kids who think they can change the world one small step at a time, only to give up when they grow exhausted of the neverending cycle or public opinion sways against them. Been there, done that.

And since that phase of his life ended in in disillusionment and alcohol poisoning, he’s pretty sure faith in humanity is just not his thing.

Plus, Les Amis have reason to either worship or hate Grantaire, and because he's not sure which, he's keeping his mouth shut. 

“Hate to be the harbinger of bad news, but I assume this is your first kidnapping operation?” Enjolras colors slightly, and Grantaire takes it as a sign to plough forward. “You can’t change the world by blackmailing one politician. What are you going to do anyway, torture me and send a tape to Daddy?”

Enjolras’s eye twitches. “We’re not going to torture you, just hang the threat of your imminent murder over your father’s head. Your father loves you.”

The look on Enjolras’s face is so trusting that Grantaire has to wonder how long he’s been at this, chipping away at the government bit by bit. He should understand layers and secrets by now, that a public act can be stripped away to reveal the cold, hard truth hidden underneath.

On the bright side, at least Grantaire’s acting abilities are better than he thought they were. First step, one very hot, misguided blonde, next step, the Academy.

“The police will track me down,” Grantaire says weakly, but even he knows that’s an empty threat. They seem like smart people, they would have taken precautions. It’s not like his father will give this his best shot anyway.

Enjolras just shrugs and smiles knowingly.

That night, when Les Amis finally decide to untie him, he sleeps on the bed, tucked under the face of a pop star. The bed is warm and comfortable but the conspicuous cameras constantly trained on him ruin the mood completely.

* * *

On the second day, Les Amis find out Grantaire is not as clean-cut as his Urban Dictionary definition makes him out to be.

Of course he’d checked. He’s a prominent politician’s son. The press scrutinizes him too, searching for faults that would reflect badly on his father. For the record, he’d never gotten straight A’s in school, ever, no matter how his father wanted to lie. Also, he does have great arms, thanks for noticing, side effect of fencing.

It’s only when his brain threatens to burst through his skull and his twitching becomes unbearable does he ask for alcohol. Begs for it, even. When a confused Enjolras refused to grant his request, Grantaire shoves his shaking hands into the other man’s face until he succumbs with a sigh. Les Amis have some St. Ides lying around, and Grantaire drinks it in a rush, the liquor burning as it races down his throat.

“You’re an alcoholic,” Enjolras says. “That wasn’t in the file.”

Grantaire can see the gears turning in Enjolras’s head, can see the blonde judging and finding him lacking. What settles in his stomach isn’t shame exactly, more of a desire for Enjolras to look at him like he did before, when he’d been another snotty rich kid and not a screwup of immense proportions.

“I’m complex as hell, files can’t capture me.” Grantaire shrugs. “And before you ask, I was never a good student, or on the academic decathlon team, or any of the shit my father says to hide how big of a disappointment I am.”

The words come nonchalantly, but Enjolras’s eyes sear him with their inquisitiveness. “Is this because of your father?”

“Screw you, I’m fucked up independently of my father, it’s totally my choice to lead a meaningless life.”

Enjolras’s eyebrows rise. “That wasn’t in your file either.”

* * *

On the third day, they try sodium pentothal, to ask him what he knows about his father’s schemes.

“…and that was how I had a threesome with a clown and a lion tamer in Saigon,” Grantaire finds himself saying when he’s self-aware again.

They don’t try truth serum again.

* * *

On the fourth day, Grantaire almost decides to throw the towel in when it comes to his crush on Enjolras.

One thing Grantaire had learned from nearly stalking Enjolras these past few weeks is that he simply does not go by the rules of social conduct. He glares at women who flirt with him, engages unsuspecting passerby in political debates they want no part of, and plots to take hostage of innocent victims.

So when Grantaire derails Enjolras’s questioning with only half-hidden sexual innuendoes, he really should not be surprised the man somehow turns the conversation to fellow social justice fighters.

“R,” Grantaire repeats, a bitter twist to his whisper.  “You’re one of those people who idolize R.”

He should have known, should have known this like he should have known his father would get him kidnapped one day by well-meaning but crazy revolutionaries. Back when he’d been painting graffiti on government buildings in that idealistic phase of his, when he’d still looked up to his father and believed mankind was inherently good, he probably should have considered the ramifications of his actions. But who was to know it would come back to bite him in the ass now?

Enjolras’s eyes go a little wild, and it’s kind of sweet, even if Grantaire is acutely aware Enjolras only ever treats him like a person when they disagree like this. “He’s a legend. No politician or shitty policy was ever exempt from his touch, and he was everywhere. He could have cashed in on his fame, but he didn’t, and—“

“No one’s heard from him in years. He’s probably an asshole who decided to have some fun fucking around for a while, and when things got too serious, oops, bye-bye.”

Enjolras huffs and splutters. “Some higher-up probably threatened him, made him stop. His word had gotten too powerful.”

The last time Grantaire had opened a can of spray paint in the dark of the night, Cosette had said the same. They’d leaned against the wall, him rummaging through his backpack for the sketches of the conflict in Israel he’d stuffed in there somewhere and her looking out for the police—unnecessarily it seemed. This was to be a quick job on the wall of an abandoned office building.

She’d taken his hands in hers and led him toward a lamppost covered in notices. These had been cropping up more and more recently, taped-up pieces of paper with one question written on them, the only differences the handwriting and the people who had written them. Everyone seemed to want in on the search.

Who’s R?

Right, like he’d actually come out and say it.

“I bet you even read his blog,” Grantaire says. “I bet you checked it every night, shit, you were one of those people who reblogged all his posts on Tumblr, weren’t you? You were a fanboy.”

“It was a good blog.” Enjolras flushes.

“You don’t even know who he is.”

“I know that he’s passionate, and he wants to change the world, and he was all about educating the people. How long has the public been lied to? He believed the people would rise as soon as the facts were presented to them, and his art inspired them to have courage.” His face hardens. “If I could meet him, I would thank him for all that he’s done.”

R would have liked him, Grantaire thinks. But then again, against all reason, Grantaire does too, so maybe Grantaire would have been screwed either way.  

Grantaire may not believe in humanity, not anymore, but he could believe in certain humans.

There is so much Grantaire wants to say, but he settles on, “His art wasn’t even that great.”

Enjolras ignores him.

* * *

The dude with the debatable sexual skills hands him a box of colored pencils and a sketchpad on the fifth day and says, “I thought you might want these, you could draw something?”

“How do you know that wasn’t a lie too, like everything else my father has said to the press?”

The man hesitates for a moment, and the hand holding the box shakes a little. He’s hardly spoken to Grantaire since the first day, and anyone can see how the arrangement unsettles him. “Enjolras said he saw you sketching him. You know, when he was following you around.”

The drawing begins as simple lines with no direction but ends up as Enjolras, burning fiery bright on the paper. When the blonde sees it, he starts in surprise.

“I didn’t know you were capable of this.”

It’s tactless but it’s honest, and when Enjolras refuses to apologize for being blunt, Grantaire thinks they may be building a rapport, which is disgustingly sweet, and he will have none of it.

Never mind, he loves it.

* * *

On the sixth day, Enjolras wears very tight pants.

* * *

On the seventh day, his father finally returns Les Amis’ call.

“He said—“ Enjolras clears his throat. “He said we could kill you if we wanted to. He doesn’t care.”

Grantaire knew, but he had never known until now. He’d thought predicting the end of the story would ease the blow somewhat, but it doesn’t, not at all.

“I told you so.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say I'm surprised it took me this long to update, but I'm really not. At least the chapter's longer than usual, right? 
> 
> Once again, HUGE THANK YOU to my beta, who had to put up with my inability to understand the concepts of word economy and redundancy, multiple typos, and other problems. 
> 
> There's now a question mark where it said 9 chapters because I'm pretty sure it's going to be less, not that it's going to stretch for longer than I previously thought. I just haven't planned the rest out yet.

The biggest problem with being kidnapped by save-the-world types is the boredom.

Judging from their wary glances as they pass Grantaire and the hushed whispers that invade his ears when they think he’s asleep, Les Amis are still trying to figure out what to do with him, now that it’s clear he won’t fit their needs. That’s Grantaire, alright. Unable to perform his duties as a proper hostage, even when said duties literally consist of sitting idly about and somehow appealing to others.

Cosette once said that Grantaire’s appeal grows with increased exposure—the more time spent with him, the more he can be tolerated. Grantaire is under the impression that if he’s growing on anyone, then he’s one of those stubborn weeds that grow on well-cultivated flower patches, choking out sunlight and stealing nutrients from far more deserving plants. He probably even has spikes lining his stem, to deter anyone with common sense and without a good pair of gloves.

And okay, it’s not like he _minds_ very much, being cooped up with Les Amis. They’re perfectly nice, albeit a crazy kind of nice. His kind of people. In another life, they might even have been friends, but for some reason, bonding with his kidnappers strikes Grantaire as inherently wrong. Besides, anger will make for a much better story when someone inevitably writes his father’s biography and dedicates a chapter to commiserating on how his skillful parenting had manifested in such disappointment.

Kudos to Grantaire and his positive thoughts, he should get a prize.

The screws in his bed frame are loosening from the number of times he’s jumped on the mattress, working through his admittedly limited repertoire of showtunes. The small crack in the wall is widening from his bouncing a ball against it, hoping the steady motion will lull him to sleep. His casual doodles are becoming increasingly detailed as the permanence of the situation sinks in.  

At this point, he almost wishes they’d locked him in a damp dungeon or at least kept him tied up, just so he can rail and curse in their faces. Would be more interesting than this at least. Shit, check your wimpy kidnapper privilege, Grantaire. Most people don’t luck out with kidnappers as selectively moral as Les Amis.

He’s in the middle of marking a tally on the wall to commemorate another day gone when the door opens, squeaking on his hinges. His ears can’t help but perk up at the sound because he’s a masochist or some shit, and masochists apparently enjoy the company of blond men who are bad for them, bad for friends, and also bad for society in general.  This is why Grantaire and Enjolras’s conversations run like a well-oiled machine. Grantaire is so goddamn willing to let Enjolras continue being bad, if it’s aimed at him.

There’s nothing that draws Enjolras to his door, not really. Grantaire’s sure the company is deplorable, and Enjolras would rather be with his friends than babysitting. Grantaire hasn’t the gene that allows him to interact with people and continue interacting with them without having them severely regret engaging him in conversation in the first place.

He has to keep Enjolras coming back with well-timed arguments and the occasional quip about his naiveté and innocence. Grantaire is no more than a cause in Enjolras’s eyes, just another blip to fix on Enjolras’s radar, but he’d rather have this than blank stares and dead silence.  The pity burns and weighs him down, but Enjolras _feels_ something for him—feels something for the fucked-up cynic who had never quite grown into responsibility. It makes him want to flee and bask in the attention at the same time.

Without turning around, Grantaire says, “Now, now, Enjolras, I know what you’re going to say. ‘Oh look, Grantaire is being overly dramatic again. Here lies the last of his dignity, if he had any in the first place.’ Well, screw you, dear, I’m not the one who goes around kidnapping people. Overly dramatic, my ass.”

The voice that replies is not Enjolras’s, and when Grantaire whips around to pinpoint the source of the unfamiliar tone, he encounters not one but two little revolutionaries. While Enjolras is already firmly planted on the couch, his friend lingers by the door, fingers tapping a disjointed rhythm on his thigh as he regards Grantaire with curious eyes. The new guy is wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a sweater-vest, knitted with the words “Courfeyrac’s bestie,” but on him, the look somehow works. He radiates reason and calm, and his presence soothes even Grantaire. It’s obvious he and Enjolras are close, their movements match and their eyes meet in silent communication.

Sweater Vest considers Enjolras’s stiff sitting position on the couch—he dominates the sofa like he dominates every other aspect of his life, beautifying the pathetic scrap of furniture—and shakes his head. “I go to a conference for two weeks, and I come back to find that you’ve kidnapped a perfectly innocent man? Didn’t we decide we were going to go about this rationally?”

“This is rational,” Enjolras says easily, but his friend shoots back, “I should just put you in time-out forever.”

The image of Enjolras punished and sent to a corner is almost too much for Grantaire’s poor, fantasy-prone heart.

Bringing the bottle of whiskey in front of him to his lips, Grantaire gives Enjolras and his friend a wicked grin. Sweater Vest almost smiles back in return, but Enjolras’s frown only deepens. “Maybe not that innocent,” Grantaire says.

“What purpose does he even serve now?” Sweater Vest asks Enjolras.

Grantaire’s response starts out as a disinterested drawl, but he ends up becoming more invested in Enjolras’s answer than he should. “I resent that. I’m perfectly useful.”

All Enjolras can spare Grantaire is a glare for his interruption before he supplies, “He could still help us—maybe if we raise the stakes a little, his father will see that we’re not bluffing.”

“Is that what you call it, ‘raising the stakes’?”

Enjolras is exasperated, but he looks more like a kicked puppy than anything. He’s searing coldness and cutting glares when the emotion is aimed at Grantaire, but Grantaire supposes he’s never wondered how Enjolras acts around his friends. If there’s anything to prove that Enjolras is nowhere near considering Grantaire as anything other than a lesser human being, despite their semi-frequent talks, it’s this.

“It wouldn’t have to be real, we could fake—“ But Sweater Vest shakes his head, and Enjolras’s sentence goes unfinished. He opens and closes his mouth in quick succession, but no words escape.

That’s when Sweater Vest fixes his attention on Grantaire. He has kind eyes, but behind their cover is a fire similar to Enjolras’s. Grantaire wonders if they just sit about talking each other up, building the passion in their eyes until it’s evident to a perceptive stranger. God, dropping in on one of those sessions would beat therapy any day.

“Alright, you’re leaving, now.” Without waiting for a reaction—which is great, really, since disappointment can hardly be a normal reaction to the events unfolding around him—Sweater Vest hauls him up by the armpits and herds him towards the door. He’s surprisingly strong for someone so skinny. “We’ll give you money, and you can take a bus out of here. I mean, it doesn’t come around very often, but we can make it work. And—“

He keeps listing details of Grantaire’s release, but the other man zones out, eyes glued to Enjolras, who is still sitting across the room. He’s frozen in place, muscles locked. Still, his eyes tell a story, and they’re verging on panic. Panic that Grantaire is leaving, maybe, but the lie settles deep in Grantaire’s stomach and threatens to evict what he had for lunch. He hates lying to himself, he hates it so much. He’ll never build himself up to more than he is, and he most certainly will not overestimate his worth.

The grip on Grantaire’s elbow tightens. Sweater Vest types in the code to open the door and shoulders it open, gesturing to the hallway with a flourish. Grantaire catches a glimpse of perfectly normal bedroom doors lining the hall before Enjolras shoves them both back into Grantaire’s room and slams the door shut behind them. His breath comes out in pants, and he blinks a few times, as if surprised he’s moved at all. He’s splayed out in front of the door, blocking their path. A rush of gratitude wells up inside Grantaire.

He is so very fucked, and the fact that he’s okay with this really doesn’t help.

Grantaire is willing to bet that Sweater Vest’s small, almost imperceptible step in front of Grantaire is unconscious, but he still ends up blocking part of Grantaire’s body from Enjolras’s wrath. Sweet of him, but Grantaire wants Enjolras’s anger, remember? His own feelings are poisonous, so he feeds off others’ emotions. “You can’t just keep him here when there’s no point to it.”

Enjolras’s panic still hasn’t left his body, and his words slur with increasing speed. He presses harder against the door behind his back. “But he could sell us out. He knows my name, for one. I thought this would be our last underground operation before we went public, shit. I didn’t think his father would be that much of an asshole.”

The protective stance lightens up somewhat. “We can’t just keep him here forever.”

“Besides,” Enjolras continues like he hadn’t heard his colleague at all, as he is wont to do, “he’s not completely innocent in this at all. How could he not see what his father was doing right underneath his nose? Grantaire could be working for him.”

Against Grantaire’s will, the corner of his mouth quirks up in a sardonic smile. It’s his worst attempt by far, but Enjolras’s words strike a place within Grantaire that hasn’t been struck in a good long while, not since he figured out exactly why his father seems to field so many calls from foreign banks. He calls it repression, but Enjolras would probably call it willful ignorance, to which he’d reply that self-preservation is a thing that most people value.

It’d been a shock that his father fitted in with the rest of them, and maybe the people he thought of as heroes just have a longer distance to fall.

Enjolras has given him an opening, and Grantaire would not be Grantaire if he didn’t exploit it. “Would my speaking up have helped at all? Or would he have locked me away with the rest of the people who opposed him? Here’s some food for thought, politicians suck at doing their job. They spend more time figuring out to help themselves, and not the people they’re supposed to represent. “

“I know that.”

“Do you really? With all of your idealism, you forgot one important fact: humans are human. They won’t live up to your ridiculous expectations, and they won’t rise and protest at your beck and call.”

Enjolras’s strict door-clinging has loosened up somewhat, at least, but Grantaire can’t figure out whether this works in his favor or not. On the one hand, it would be far too easy to shove Enjolras’s slight body out of the way. On the other hand, it would be far too _easy_ to shove Enjolras away. He moves away from the door and toward Grantaire, caught up in the buzz of the argument and the hum of words. He shakes with anticipation, his eyes trained on Grantaire, and _shit,_ Grantaire has missed this these past few days. Sweater Vest crowds him, but Grantaire gently shoves the arm blocking his path out of the way. Enjolras pulls him in like a marionette.

“ _My_ beck and call? You’re acting like I lead all, but this is a group effort—“

“Really?” Grantaire cocks his head toward Sweater Vest. “Tell that to the friend you wouldn’t even inform of your scheme, even though it will change Les Amis’ reputation forever.”

Standing silently at Grantaire’s side, Sweater Vest doesn’t deny it. Score one for Grantaire. If he keeps this up, he’ll just plain never catch up to Enjolras instead of never _ever_ doing so.

“Just because you fall far from my expectations doesn’t mean others will,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire’s blood runs cold. The roiling in his stomach starts up again, and his brain is made of molasses, thoughts fighting through the viscous substance to connect the dots. They make no progress. Enjolras is blunt and honest, but he’s rarely ever flat-out cruel.

Grantaire can’t blame him for articulating what’s on his mind. He is obnoxious and a mediocre human being on his best days, and Enjolras seems to consider himself the harbinger of truth to an unenlightened population.

The laugh that erupts out of Grantaire is dark, a low chuckle against the tension in the room. Sweater Vest has backed away from the scene now. Good choice, he has brains. “So you had expectations for me. Am I too cynical? Too useless? Did you expect some high-functioning member of society, only to find out that I’m much less?”

He knows the answer already, but some confirmation would be nice.

It takes Enjolras a moment, but it’s a moment too long. Grantaire knows he’s just backtracking now, trying to retract his words to control the damage. He doesn’t mean any of it. He’s lying to keep Grantaire sitting here waiting, unable to cause trouble, and it’s going to work.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, but Sweater Vest cuts him off with a hand on the small of his back. The moment they make contact, the tension flows out of Enjolras’s body, and the blond relaxes into the other man’s touch. Grantaire had slapped the label of friends on them at first sight—it’s hard to imagine Enjolras making time for romantic entanglements—but now he wonders if his judgment had been a little too hasty, if he’d presumed too much about someone he hardly knows at all.

“But it isn’t—“ Enjolras protests again, but after Sweater Vest whispers sharply in his ear, he lets out a deep sigh.

“A week, then. We’ll keep you here one more week, during which time we’ll try to figure out what to do. If nothing happens, we’ll let you go.”

* * *

Let’s face it, Grantaire, like most twenty somethings with no long-term goals and a mountain of issues to his name, is lazy as fuck. If he could, he’d stay in and sleep all day, only rejecting the warmth of his blankets for intermittent bathroom breaks. Hell, when Les Amis had given in and installed a refrigerator, he’d pushed it next to the bed, where a nightstand would go. It takes exactly one and a half rolls and a two-foot reach to open the fridge, and he’s got the entire process down to two seconds.

As far as Grantaire is concerned, laziness is an art equal to the works of Van Gogh or Picasso. Instead of acclaimed paintings, he’ll get decreased muscle mass and a foggy brain as the fruit of his non-labors.  He’s chill with that.

The desk stands against the side of the bed, and it takes two rolls and one elbow push to get himself into position to draw, when he works up the energy. When his fingers don’t move fluidly, and his brain refuses to get past the block that reassures him of his own inadequacy, the process is slow and awkward. Like now, when he’s still reeling from everything Enjolras. Draw one line, take a thirty minute nap, get up, realize the mediocrity of said line, erase, repeat.

Eponine has drawn up a chair on the other side of the table, where she sits staring at Grantaire staring at his blank page—a makeshift interrogation room. He swings his legs idly, and because he’s an immature asshole, he may or may not be swinging them in too-large arcs in order to kick the girl once in a while. He’s a child, and a petulant one at that.

Plus, it’s fun to watch Eponine’s face turn an ever deeper shade of red.

“You’re such a boring hostage.”

“Well, you’re a boring kidnapper, so I guess we’re even. “

“Have you even tried to escape? Rip off the curtains to tie a rope that will reach the ground? Try to dig your way out with a spoon? You know, I thought holding someone hostage would be a lot more interesting. Why do you have to suck and crush on Enjolras?”

Grantaire’s gaze flits to the camera before Eponine rolls her eyes and says, “Enjolras isn’t here today, and everyone watching already knows. You have all the subtlety of Dumbledore trying to stay closeted.”

She takes another puff of her cigarette, and Grantaire gives it a very pointed stare. Huffing impatiently, Eponine thrusts the pack at him. With a flick, she lights the cigarette for Grantaire, and it steadily flares to life. The smoke filling his lungs is warm and familiar, and he hums in bliss.

“Is Sweater Vest—“

Grantaire has trouble articulating the words, but Eponine is two steps ahead. “That’s what you call him? But no, Enjolras and ‘Sweater Vest’ are most definitely not involved. Sure, I mean, they’re platonic husbands, but.” She searches for the words. “He’s just not interested in romance at all. Permanent stick up his ass, that guy. Says that the motherland is his mistress and everything, and hey—that’s not supposed to be cute, your eyes are lighting up, you’re not supposed to think that’s adorable.”

“Maybe I like dorks,” Grantaire counters. Or maybe just dork, singular.

“And maybe you’re completely fucked.”

Taking a page out of his teenage days, Grantaire gives his shoulders a non-committal shrug.

“Word of advice? Give up now, I know what unrequited love is like, and it’s not fun.”

“Are you here to lecture me?”

“Honestly?” Quirking an eyebrow, Eponine reaches across the table and slides his sketchbook over. She hardly seems surprised when she notices that Grantaire had been outlining Enjolras’s face on autopilot, his fingers moving of their own accord. “You seem like a nice enough person, and I just wanted to see if you would listen to my advice.”

“You could give me tips? 101 Ways to Pretend You’re Not Looking. Pining for Dummies. How to Get Your Heart Broken in Style.”

“Sure, when you figure it out, tell me, I’d love to know.”

In his mind, Grantaire is thirteen again, still searching for approval from his father that would never come. He’s ignoring what he loves, he’s charming politicians with carefully-chosen rhetoric, he’s pretending that each smile and easy handshake doesn’t feel like a betrayal to himself. His father’s good opinion may be what feeds him, but it’s vampiric, sapping his humanity away as it sustains him. He will always crave more, a never-ending cycle.

So Grantaire asks the question he has always posed back then, when things had mattered. “Does he like me?”

Eponine’s finger falters where she’s scratching at the tabletop, etching jagged lines into the surface with long, red-tipped fingernails. “You confuse him.”

It’s an answer and a blatant cop-out at the same time, and Grantaire isn’t quite sure what to make of it.

The small shivers that have been plaguing Grantaire’s body through the entire meeting seem to culminate into a large one now, wracking through him. His teeth chatter, and his hands shake in tandem. The first shudder breaks a dam, and before long, the shivers shake his body continuously, offering him no reprieve. In the past few days, Grantaire has made do with the clothes in the closet, which are all mysteriously in his size. They’re baggy and plain, nothing the public Grantaire usually wears, meaning they’re clothes the real Grantaire most definitely wears.

But there’s nothing in there appropriate for braving cold temperatures like this, and for the first time, Grantaire notices Eponine has three layers on. He longs for the soft blanket wrapped around him, but he’s pretty sure he’s already made a terrible enough impression on Eponine that curling up into his blankets like a child would not help his cause.

“Heating’s broken,” Eponine announces.

His teeth clattering together, Grantaire wraps his arms around himself and rubs his biceps to invite the warmth back in. “I can see that.”

Eponine grins like she knows something he doesn’t. “Wait here.”

When Eponine comes back five minutes later, she tosses Grantaire Enjolras’s red hoodie. His hands reach out to grab it before he can stop himself. He gives it a tentative sniff. The lack of distinctive smell clinging to the cotton is somehow special in its own way.

Eponine’s nose scrunches up in disgust. “Yeah, don’t do that. Creepy.”

“Did you have to get me Enjolras’s?”

“Are you complaining? Besides, his room is the closest.” It’s totally Grantaire’s luck that he’s only been a few feet from Enjolras’s living space all along. The images that run through Grantaire’s brain aren’t fit for public viewing.

Conscientious of Eponine’s eyes on him, Grantaire pulls the hoodie over his head. It fits a tad too snug around the shoulders, and the cotton itches a bit, but all in all, it does its job.

“Enjolras won’t miss it. Swear to God, he has ten of these. And now you have a little piece of Enjolras, all to yourself. Isn’t that grand?”

It isn’t really, he doesn’t want any of it. He didn’t ask to be attracted to someone so horribly bad for him, someone whose only interactions with him are sharp reprimands. But he pulls the hoodie tight around himself anyway, and it’s warm, so warm.

When Eponine has left, gone back to her outside life, he discovers a hole in the sleeve. It’s small, barely there, and to anyone not actively looking for an imperfection, it may as well not exist at all. Instinctively, he picks and pulls at the thread, and the hole widens with every tug. The jacket unravels and unravels. By the time Grantaire realizes what he’s done, the hole is so big that it’s noticeable, a flaw so blatant against the deep red that he can’t stand to look at it, much less wear it.

He stashes it under his pillow anyway.

* * *

Grantaire isn’t looking to escape, not really. The safety precautions Les Amis have put into place will stop him, and he just wants to see how far he can push before the elastic breaks and he springs back to where he started. It only takes Grantaire one try to punch in the correct code—he has a memory for detail that he never properly utilized in school. 06181815. Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo.

Footsteps falling lightly on the floor, Grantaire pads toward the end of the hallway, where another door awaits. The carpet is a sea of contradictions—the plushness and well-managed hairs give way to intermittent bald spots and stains, where rips reveal wood flooring or unidentifiable dark liquids leave a dotting of color on an otherwise uniform beige. Elegance and dilapidation existing side by side.

A typical horror movie may suggest sconces on the walls, brightly lit torches adding to the eeriness of the experience, but the walls are white and empty,  something out of a model home. It’s mostly dim, save for a faint light emanating from underneath someone’s door. Nightlight, probably; it doesn’t shine too brightly. It casts shadows on the walls as Grantaire walks through the narrow corridor of light it creates.

When he gets to the end of the hallway, he rattles the doorknob futilely, and the frustrated bang he inflicts on the wood when it refuses to give is capable of waking the whole house. Sagging against the door, Grantaire pillows his face on folded arms. The harder he presses against his eyelids, the more his headache abates, and that’s how Enjolras finds him, crushing himself against the door like he wants to sink right into it.

“We had the door installed in case you somehow got out of your room. I said we wouldn’t need it, but I guess I was wrong.”

Slowly, Grantaire peels himself away from the door and looks Enjolras dead in the eye. The clock in his room showed three in the morning when he’d left, but Enjolras’s eyes shine bright even in the darkness of the hallway. The alertness is disconcerting—Grantaire has never seen the man tired. It likely goes against his personal Ten Commandments to reveal weakness.

He’s holding a cup of an unidentifiable drink in his hand, and his hair is tied back in a ponytail that leaves hair spilling out. A stray curl brushes his eyelashes, bouncing with every jerky movement of Enjolras’s head.

“I guess Eponine got her wish after all. Here’s me trying to escape, and failing. Exciting.”

“You’re not trying to escape,” Enjolras says, sounding remarkably sure of himself. Grantaire’s hand has fallen against the knob automatically, and Enjolras fits his fingers into the spaces. Grantaire’s breath hitches, but he’s seeing something that isn’t there, of course he is, Enjolras is just prying his hand from the doorknob now. His grip is so weak that it’s not so much prying as guiding, and the touch feels more intimate that it’s meant to.

Enjolras’s fingers are long and unblemished, and he doesn’t keep hold of Grantaire’s hand longer than necessary. Grantaire pretends he doesn’t notice the haste with which Enjolras lets go.

“If you were serious, you would realize that there are no fewer than twenty bobby pins sitting in the drawer under your sink. Not the easiest way to pick a lock, but if you had truly wanted to go, you would have taken the chance.”

The fact of the matter is, Grantaire values Enjolras’s face too much to punch it, so all he does is lean against the wall, one foot propped against the plaster. Enjolras bites his lip, feet shifting back and forth. Something in his position reflects his earlier panic, but more muted this time. He’s holding the cup away from his body, which is weird because well, he must have been drinking it, and before Grantaire can appreciate the fact that Enjolras is trying to _give_ him something, Enjolras has aggressively shoved the warm cup into his hand.

It’s a testament to Grantaire’s reflexes that the cup doesn’t fall—he manages to grip it just in time. It’s hotter than he would have expected, especially for a three in the morning drink. Enjolras lets out a near squeak—except it’s not a squeak, Enjolras is far too dignified to squeak—when Grantaire nearly drops the cup in surprise at the temperature.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, because he feels like he has an obligation to inquire after beverages that may or may not harm his health.

Enjolras blushes, and the red suffuses throughout his entire face, from the roots of his hair to the tip of his chin. Grantaire would never have pegged him as the type to embarrass so easily, but it’s sweet, and if Grantaire hadn’t known Enjolras to be the leader of a political organization willing to go to extremes to get what they want—no matter how bad they are at sticking to those extremes—he would write poetry on when he reveals a little bit of the human inside the leader, when icy fire yields to a soft flame.

“It’s a peace offering,” he says.

“What is it, poison?”

Enjolras makes a low, frustrated sound in his throat. “Would I really poison you after keeping you alive this long? It’s _coffee_ ,” and he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’d predicted Grantaire’s shitty attempt to escape and had timed his early-morning wanderings to match, armed with coffee as an olive branch. Goddammit, coffee at three in the morning, Grantaire should not be surprised.

Dismissing Grantaire’s look of disbelief, Enjolras ploughs on, the words rushing and tumbling over each other, set off by an undercurrent of—is that really what Grantaire thinks it is?—nervousness. “You mentioned you like coffee, and well, I had this special blend from Colombia, dark roast—“

He cuts himself off. There’s a blush playing at Grantaire’s cheeks too, because Enjolras _remembered_ his preference for dark roast and his bitter relationship with American coffee after traveling overseas so often. He drinks it out of necessity, but if he could, he’d do away with it altogether. Enjolras remembered enough of their conversations to apologize by shoving a cup of coffee into his hand, and it makes Grantaire want to shrink back and blend into the wall. He’s never been granted so much attention from Enjolras before, when it’s not tainted with arguments and hostility. It makes him feel like he’s some sort of thief.

He’s always hidden himself behind sarcasm and snarky quips, so he deadpans, “I like coffee because it helps me get over hangovers.”

“Yes, and?”

“It’s three in the morning, and I’m perfectly sober.”

If it’s possible, Enjolras blushes even harder, and his hands flail out awkwardly as he reaches out to steal the cup away from Grantaire, apologizing profusely. Reflexively, Grantaire hugs the cup to his chest and blocks Enjolras’s path with an arm.

They pause, equally caught by surprise.

Grantaire clears his throat. “Just because I don’t need it doesn’t mean I don’t want it. Thank you.”

“Oh, um, oh.” Enjolras awaits his reaction, staring intently, as Grantaire takes a tentative sip. The look is hopeful, too hopeful, and if the coffee sucks, Grantaire is going to pretend—he’s had enough practice. He does not need Enjolras’s hopes to be pinned on his actions, no sir.

As soon as he takes a sip, the taste explodes on his tongue. Balanced, rich, dark—the perfect blend. Their taste in coffee is similar. Grantaire gives it a nod of approval, and Enjolras relaxes his shoulders some.

“Why are you up anyway?” Grantaire asks, because inane questions make for great distractors.

“I never sleep properly. Hence, the coffee.”

“I’m surprised you’re not dragging me to my room and tying me up again.” Grantaire is so very aware of exactly how that sentence sounded, and it elicits another slight flush from Enjolras. Score. This may be Grantaire’s new favorite hobby, making Enjolras blush.

“The others have—“ He clears his throat. “They’ve banned me from doing so. You’ve been a model prisoner.”

God, what a compliment that is. It’s his father all over again. You’re so very good at pretending you’re not you, Grantaire, now put on that suit, we’ve got board members to impress. But it’s a cycle, isn’t it? History repeating itself until it crumbles apart, taking Grantaire with it? So he wants it, needs it.

The silence is infused with unsaid words, and it hangs between them, threatening to pop at any wrong step. It clings to Grantaire’s skin, to his clothes, to his hair, and it presses against him from all sides.

They start at the same time.

“When I said that yesterday—“

“You really don’t have to apologize—“

Grantaire motions to Enjolras. _You first._

Enjolras meets Grantaire’s gaze straight on, and there’s no hint of his earlier hesitation. It’s Grantaire who wants to cower now. “I meant that you’re screwed up, but not in the way I expected you to be. You’re not a brainless sycophant, or a heartless robot, you know that what your father does is wrong, but you don’t think he’s worth stopping. Or you don’t think yourself worthy of causing change, is that it? You are not what I expected, but it’s not a bad thing, not at all.”

“Please don’t do that,” Grantaire says. He neither wants nor needs Enjolras’s sympathy right now. He would take his anger over this.

“Do what _?”_

Grantaire gesticulates wildly. “Your whole little ‘Grantaire, I know you’re a good person at heart’ spiel. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? You know very well why I haven’t tried to escape, and I’m asking you not to make it worse.”

Enjolras’s face darkens. “I understand that you haven’t left because you want to wait until I’m proven wrong, that my plans for social change won’t work, but I’m trying to make you not hate me now, and I would appreciate it if you would listen.”

“You think—you think I hate you.”

“Why else are you so hostile towards me and no one else?” He says it like a challenge.

“Oh my God, you’re serious. You’re genuinely, seriously serious.” He raises his coffee to Enjolras, a final sign of defeat. “Well, I guess this is where I bid you farewell. Goodnight, I’m going to drink my coffee alone in my room now.”

But Enjolras’s hand wraps around Grantaire’s wrist before he can even walk two steps, and his grip is tight, too tight for Grantaire to loosen. “You mean you don’t hate me?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “No, I loathe you with all my heart, and that’s why I laughed at the idea that I could ever hate you.”

There’s wonder in Enjolras’s eyes, just a little bit. He stands there with his mouth slightly agape.

“My friends like you,” Enjolras says, and now it’s Grantaire’s turn to blush. Few people ever _like_ him, and well, the fact that he’s managed to convince his kidnappers that he’s a human being worthy of their vague affection is both mildly amusing and disturbing. And, to be honest, pretty pathetic. He notes that Enjolras doesn’t say that _he_ likes Grantaire, but he’s not sure Enjolras is capable of liking anyone who’s doesn’t fit into his ideal.

Grantaire hides the blush by pressing his cheek against the wall, which calls even more attention to it. Emotions, man. What fuckers. “What’s there not to like?” he quips, and it goes unspoken, he thinks, that the list is too long to name, that his innumerable faults aren’t worth Enjolras’s time anyway. Enjolras doesn’t respond, and Grantaire’s chill with it. He is. He’s all kinds of chill, and he expected nothing, though a little reassurance of his appeal would have been nice. Scary, but nice.

“You’re not—“ Enjolras gulps. “Your father should have tried, at least.”

His father should have done a lot of things, but it’s too late now.

Enjolras shuffles his feet against the carpet and opens his mouth, only to close it again immediately. He’s hesitant, on the verge of speaking, and Grantaire’s had a horrible night, thanks, there have been enough misunderstandings between them without Enjolras adding fuel to the fire. At this point, any words exchanged would probably be misinterpreted by the other. He turns to leave, but Enjolras stops him with a call.

“Three. Tomorrow.” The decisive tone is back. “I wasn’t going to do this, but my friends suggested it, and anyway. Eponine will come get and take you downstairs. Don’t try to leave your room before then.”

Oh, Grantaire wish he could.

* * *

The flight of stairs leading down to the bottom floor is steep, and the blindfold Eponine has tied over his eyes doesn’t help his balance at all. He’s stumbling, trying to keep upright, but Eponine’s hand on his back urges him forward until they finally stagger to the last step. There is a click of a knob as a door is pushed open.

The first sound that greets Grantaire, when the door has been closed and locked shut behind him, is the purring. It’s soft, barely audible, and Grantaire strains to hear it over the murmur of human voices starting up again, recovering from the hush that fell over the room when he made his entrance. A tiny, warm body presses up against his leg. His first instinct is to kick it off, but Eponine’s hand on his knee stills him.

“If you kick Saint-Just, Bahorel will slit your throat. Or at least write you a strongly-worded letter,” she warns, shoving him down into a chair. Her grip on his shoulder is surprisingly strong, and the thin shirt he’s wearing offers no protection from the way the intricate ring on her finger digs into his flesh. The scratched knuckles he’d spied this morning suggest that she chose the jewelry for this very reason. “Swear to God, Bahorel has some sort of devil pact with that cat.”

Deft hands untie the knot at the back of his head, and harsh fluorescent light floods his vision. Bright spots dance in front of his eyes, and when he manages to vanish them with a few rapid blinks, Les Amis—so he assumes, at least—are staring at him like he’s an exhibit at a museum. Sorry to disappoint, but the only museum that would display Grantaire specializes in scarred, deformed things, inside and out.

Grantaire gives them a mocking two-finger salute. “New hostage at your service.”

If he sounds too jovial, it’s because he _is_ , these are little boys playing in the big league, and he can’t take their wide eyes and unmarred hands seriously. They’ve never been mistaken for a journalist in Syria, or maybe accidentally run into Banksy in Disney World, or definitely deliberately punched Banksy in Disney World. It’s a long story, one he’d rather not divulge.

The area is set up like a conference room, but the atmosphere suggests otherwise. Muddied sneakers placed on expensive mahogany, a bowl of melted cheese spilling over onto the wood, two tabby kittens chasing each other around the perimeter. If Grantaire had expected anything, it’s not this. Surely, a group of activists once so popular with the people would be more organized than this ragtag team. He’s more inclined to befriend them than fear the extent of their influence. And maybe that’s what makes them so dangerous, this kind of sabotage is the scariest of all.

The Ami sitting closest to Grantaire, the bald one, scrutinizes him through narrow eyes. “You’re not what I expected.”

Grantaire leans back in his chair, balancing on its back two legs. He can feel the gazes fixed on him, weighing him down. “And I’m being held hostage by revolutionary wannabes. Life doesn’t exist to fulfill expectations.”

“You think you’re a sarcastic little shit.”

“What? Wasn’t that in my file?”

Breaking out into a grin, Baldy offers his hand to Grantaire. It doesn’t seem to be coated with poison, and the short-sleeved shirt he wears erases the possibility of any hidden knives tucked into his sleeve, but Grantaire still falters before grasping his hand and shaking it firmly. The action feels like a premonition, and Grantaire has no idea what he’s getting himself into.

“I was hoping I’d like you,” Baldy says, “I’m Bossuet.”

“God, don’t _touch_ him,” the guy next to him snaps affectionately. “Your unlucky may rub off on him.”

“I’m the luckiest person here, fuck you. Let’s see you predict when you’ll run into a lamppost with perfect accuracy.”

“I don’t think it counts as luck if your prediction is literally ‘always’.” Fixing his glasses, he turns to Grantaire. “Joly,” he introduces. If the science textbook sitting in front of him is anything to go by, he has a life outside of these this building. Grantaire can’t blame him. Planning political blackmail must turn exhausting every once in a while, though he’s not sure an organic chemistry course is the easiest way to blow off steam. He prefers self-destructive behavior and inadvertently dragging his best friend down with him himself, but to each their own.

Eponine makes a strangled noise in her throat, and her hand flashes towards Joly, twisting his earlobe. “What did Enjolras say about names?”

Joly deadpans, “We’ve been watching his every move for a week, and he’s been the perfect prisoner.”

“I could be planning my escape even now, you never know.” Grantaire taps his temple. “I could have an evil genius brain hidden up here. Don’t underestimate the Grantaire.”

Blinking his big eyes innocently, Joly says, “But if you leave, you can’t watch Enjolras’s face turn red every time you insult his fashion choices, question his lifestyle, or make fun of his deplorable knowledge of pop culture.”

Les Amis like to play dirty, it seems. He has to give the guy grudging props though, even if he’s too quick to trust.

Grantaire can see the greenness in the friends’ every action, the relaxed way with which they hold themselves around him, the easy way they offer up personal information. It’s all very sad but also cute, and Grantaire is caught between wanting to beat some sense into them and taking them for a trip through the crime-ridden corners of town to teach them a lesson. They may sit contently behind laptops, but life isn’t made of pixels, and out there, the convenient plasma screens giving them their comfortable degree of separation is made of 78 percent oxygen, 21 percent nitrogen, and trace amounts of sheer nothing.

The click of the door signals an entrance, and Les Amis finally wrench their attention away from Grantaire in surprising synchronization. Speak of the devil, Grantaire thinks. Enjolras shuffles into the room wearily, legs dragging on the floor with tiredness. Sweater Vest trails behind him, in only slightly better shape.

The fitted black suit Enjolras is wearing has seen better days, but now there’s a rip on the sleeve and dirt on the hem of his pants. Surprisingly, the red tie is still fixed tight around his neck, keeping his collar looking sharp even when the rest of his appearance has fallen to shambles. A button hangs on for dear life by a mere thread, and if Grantaire were pretentious enough to make metaphors, he is the button because hot _damn_. Enjolras is the perfect picture of good boy gone wild, and Grantaire has a this thing, okay, it’s not his fault. Ever since he’d sucked off Jimmy Hart in the bathroom of one of the endless charity balls his father had dragged him to in eighth grade, Grantaire had developed an appreciation for the way wool fits tight over the right bodies or how methodically unbuttoning a suit jacket is an act more sinful than it should be.

The bruise blossoming across Enjolras’s face stands out against his pale skin, but it fits him somehow, an imperfection made to better the quality of an artwork. Enjolras was never meant for the quiet life, of doing but not _doing_ , and Grantaire can see it now. The small cut on Enjolras’s lip is still oozing blood, a thin line of red trailing down to the tip of his chin. His tongue intermittently flicks out to probe at the wound. Enjolras paints a pretty picture like this, blood rouging his lips and on his tongue, stalwartly unapologetic.

“What—“ Joly starts, but Enjolras stops him with a glare. It’s all shades of _I’m not in the mood_ mixed in with a little resigned exasperation, like this has happened too many times to count and they shouldn’t even try to ask until Enjolras has come up with a proper explanation.

Sweater Vest sighing in the background, Enjolras stumbles toward the conference table, legs falling over each other but never quite aligning in a way that causes him to trip. No one dares assist him as he sways on his feet, sways right down into Grantaire’s lap.

As soon as they make contact, Enjolras jolts up as if burned. Nice to know someone still seems to think he has cooties. Grantaire will have him know that Cosette gave him an anti-cootie shot in fifth grade, thank you very much, he is cootie-free and proud.

“Why are you sitting in my seat?” Enjolras demands. Well, at least Grantaire has shocked him out of his tiredness, and, judging from the way Enjolras’s eyes blaze, all he had needed was someone at whom to direct his anger. Grantaire bets he’ll never admit to anyone, much less himself, that he’s just about _pouting_ right now. “Who put you in my seat?”

“You need to learn how to share,” Eponine sings.

“You need to learn how to respect authority,” Enjolras sings right back, but the idea has her bursting into giggles. Even Enjolras cracks a small smile.

Grantaire digs his fingers into the arms of the chair and burrows his body down deeper into the plushy velvet, standing his ground and probably digging his own grave. He hopes the eulogies will be mildly pleasant. “Is this bothering you?” he taunts Enjolras.

An eyebrow rises. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

Then, like a snake uncoiling, Enjolras snaps forward to grab Grantaire’s shoulders, catching him off-guard. With an elegant twist of his body, Enjolras shoves Grantaire from the chair and onto the ground, jumping onto the seat in the same move. Grantaire blames the unexpected contact for this display of weakness, how Enjolras’s touch had loosened his grip just enough to allow this to happen. Smugness graces every one of Enjolras’s features, but if this is some weird display of dominance for Les Amis’ benefit, Grantaire is glad to be of service, pro bono. If he exists to make Enjolras feel more powerful, that’s okay with him.

Joly coughs awkwardly and stands, pulling out his chair for Grantaire before sitting at Bossuet’s other side. He climbs into the seat gratefully.

Nodding at his lieutenants in turn, Enjolras begins, “As you all know, my parents requested my presence at my cousin’s debutante ball, which, this year, was planned by my mother. Now—“

“Enjolras.” Grantaire repeats the name in his mind as his synapses fire and his dendrites make the connections. Where has the heard the name before? _“Enjolras_. Not like, those high-society Enjolrases, right? Even my father thinks you’re all snobs.”

Enjolras winces visibly. “How many Enjolrases do you know?”

Grantaire hadn’t quite made the connection before Enjolras mentioned debutante balls and showed up wearing that expensive suit—it’s damaged, but it still reeks of well-made goodness—but the dignified way Enjolras holds himself  and the careful manner with which he speaks are obvious now, honed by years of practice.  Last time he’d met the Enjolrases face to face had been years ago—he thinks their mothers may have had a falling out over some committee or other. Grantaire was in the same boat as Enjolras once, but, like Grantaire’s had been, Enjolras’s boat is floating on the river of misdirected rebellion and will probably end at the waterfall of disownment.

“We used to play with each other, when we were kids!” Grantaire flashes back to a short blond boy standing at the edges of their group, never quite fitting in with his rambunctious playmates.  It’s all coming back to him now. Grantaire had never felt quite comfortable around him, not enough to befriend him like he befriended the others. Enjolras had been a mini-revolutionary, even as a child, and he could feel his little eyes judging Grantaire’s every move.

“If by play, you mean you dumped a pail of water on my head to see what it would do to my hair.”

“Still bitter, I see. I’m still convinced you sacrifice virgins to get it that shiny.” It has lost none of its allure over time, and Grantaire’s fairly sure Enjolras will have a full head of blond hair at age 80, provided he survives until then instead of martyring himself for a hopeless cause.

“You’re just the same now as you were then, taking the luxuries given to you without batting an eyelash.” The reprimand doesn’t have as much of an edge as it could have had. Their conversation earlier had felt like a sort of dream, something Grantaire’s subconscious had pulled out as a form of torture, but now, sitting here and watching Enjolras interact with him with a touch of normalcy, he realizes it’s still fresh in Enjolras’s mind too.

“What about you? Showing up at a meeting of revolutionaries wearing thousand-dollar Armani?”

“Even privileged children have a right—no, an obligation—to speak up.”

Oh, Grantaire knows. He knows how he’d once thought his father would be proud of him for finding a way to enact change using his own specialized set of skills. He knows how he’d thought he’d been doing Gabriel Grantaire a favor, leaving him in the dark about his son’s exploits, lest he be questioned by gossip-mongers. He knows how Enjolras will burn out in a few years. It always happens. And when his core collapses in on itself, it will leave a black hole in its wake, sucking in anything that dares fly near. Grantaire just knows.

Lips pressed tight, Enjolras dismisses Grantaire and turns instead to his friends. “Belcourt was there.”

There is a collective shudder.

Sweater Vest seems to procure a backpack out of thin air and hands it to Enjolras, who digs through its contents before triumphantly pulling out a manila folder. “I tried to find information on his wife, to see if we can somehow get to him through her, and as you all know, we’ve tried to expose his tax records without success. He runs a tight operation, but maybe if we manipulate him through her, this will work—“

“No,” Grantaire says suddenly. The room falls silent with discomfort. “You’re wrong,” he says again. As soon as Enjolras’s eyes seek him out, Grantaire’s muscles lock into position, ready to spring.

Enjolras pauses in his perusal of the papers on the folder, pausing over Belcourt’s high school transcript. Thorough, they are. “What the hell do you mean?”

“He doesn’t give two shits about his wife. They got married straight out of high school because he got her pregnant, and neither could take the scandal. He’s been having an affair with Senator Watson, for five years now. Last time I heard anything about them, he was on the cusp of leaving his wife for her. That’s who you should be targeting. I thought you did your research?”

It’s a low blow, he knows, especially considering what had happened to make them lose credibility in the first place, what had reminded the people that they’re young, so very young, and their knowledge of the world is limited in scope. No one will let Les Amis forget that they once published forged bank receipts from a whistleblower, who turned out to not be a whistleblower at all but a liar with a personal vendetta against Felix Tholomyès. It had taken someone else to finish the job of discrediting Tholomyès, and they’re not over it. But it had been going great until then, and Grantaire can tell Les Amis still think they can have that again.

If they ever find out that Grantaire and Cosette had done what they couldn’t, Enjolras will probably have a conniption.

Grantaire is right. If there’s anything he knows, it’s _people_. He’s stood at the periphery for so long that he can’t help but look in, just for a tiny taste of what he’s missing. If life is a football game, then Grantaire is the awkward water boy on the sidelines. If it’s a merry-go-round, he’s the kid with overprotective parents. People talk, and Grantaire listens, simple as that.

“And how do you know that?”

Finally, Grantaire has ground to stand on. “Well, my dearest, darlingest Enjolras, while you were off revolutionizing and organizing your merry band of activists, I was paying attention to the people around me. Lazing about does have its benefits after all.”

“Are you positive?”

“Positive, unless my mother and her friends are completely making up the scandal.”

Enjolras still looks unconvinced. “But we checked everything.”

“And sometimes, that’s not enough.”

They are locked in a dance now, both refusing to back down from confrontation. Cosette had been trying to wean him off his addiction to the rush of argument-fueled adrenaline, but without her presence, he’s a junkie again. Or maybe it’s just Enjolras who gets him intoxicated like this, maybe he doesn’t want to ride the high of an argument—just Enjolras’s distinctive high.

Or just ride him. That too.

Sweater Vest’s voice breaks through the silence, and Grantaire was right—he’s the logic behind their schemes. Enjolras may embody all they stand for, but Enjolras is also prone to glaring at alcoholic cynics instead of organizing a plan, so there’s that. “Eponine, talk to anyone you know about information on Senator Watson. She’s been under our radar, but surely someone knows something about her.”

Eponine already has her phone out, and she’s biting her lip, intensely scrolling through her contacts. Grantaire has seen Eponine flirtatious, and joking, and amused, but he’s never seen her like Les Amis probably see her every day, hard at work bringing down the social order. It’s mildly terrifying, or at least, it’s terrifying until she decides on a number and makes her first call.

“I swear, Gavroche, if you do this for me, I won’t make you do the dishes. What do you mean, do you wash them anyway? How do they get clean—shit, you did not just…”

Sweater Vest plops down into the seat across from Grantaire and explains, “Her little brother. He knows just about everyone. Scary, that kid is. I’m Combeferre, by the way.” Enjolras makes a sound of protest, but Combeferre presses forward. “Sharing names is probably the first step in establishing trust.”

Enjolras remains impassive, but he also doesn’t stop Combeferre, so it’s a start. The feeling welling up in Grantaire’s chest is too hopeful to entertain, but well, Enjolras doesn’t hate him. He’s allowed to have his moment.

From his magical backpack, Combeferre draws out a smashed cupcake, the paper wrapper hanging off the pastry like a wilting leaf. The icing, once neat, now covers the entire thing indiscriminately.

“I heard your birthday was last Wednesday. 24th, right?”

“Now, _that_ ,” he says, “I’m sure was in my file.”

But he takes the cupcake anyway.

He hasn’t had dessert for a week, and it’s fine, he figures indulging hostages isn’t on top of anyone’s to-do list. Objectively speaking, this isn’t the best cupcake Grantaire’s ever had, but it melts in his mouth, too-sugary icing coating the roof. Typical store-bought brand probably, but right then, the best homemade cupcakes can’t hold a flame to the pathetic one in his hand.

Combeferre’s smile is so inviting that Grantaire finds himself immediately trusting the other man. Even if Eponine hadn’t already said so, he gets the feeling that Enjolras and Combeferre are good friends, but he can’t fathom why that is—they’re polar opposites bound together in common cause.

Grantaire is so relaxed that when Enjolras throws out, “Alain Belland,” he doesn’t even hesitate before offering, “The guy who’s advocating abortion restrictions, right? If you want a scandal, dig up hospital records from when he was sixteen. He had a girlfriend, got her pregnant, and paid her to have an abortion at one of those sleazy, cheap places that will do anything for the right price.”

It takes him two more bites of his cupcake before— _oh._

“This is Stockholm Syndrome,” Grantaire accuses Enjolras halfheartedly. A few cupcake crumbs fall onto the table as he shakes it emphatically. “You’re worming your way into my head.”

“I technically never asked you a question.” Unbelievably smug, Enjolras leans back in his seat and steeples his fingers. Grantaire’s sure that may sound perfectly normal in Enjolras’s head, but no one asked George Bush to suck as a president either, and look how that ended.

Enjolras has his leg hooked around a leg of the chair, and for the first time, Grantaire notices he’s wearing worn sneakers instead of dress shoes with his suit. What a rebel.  He’s noticing all kinds of details about Enjolras now, to avoid looking into his eyes.

Even with an impressive black and blue splotch covering half his face, Enjolras manages to sound like his normal imposing self when he says, “So you’ll sell out these people but not your father, who you claim hates you and therefore is not worthy of your loyalty.”

The paper wrapper is suddenly the most interesting thing the world as Grantaire occupies himself with folding it, keeping his eyes fixed on the crumb-covered wax. He thinks it was meant to be a crane, but it turns into more of a sad paper disco ball. He’s never professed to be a master of three-dimensional media. “He keeps everything under lock and key, I couldn’t help you if I tried.”

Enjolras and Combeferre share a skeptical glance, but Grantaire has made a habit of avoidance and thus ignores them, choosing to take the last bite of his cupcake instead. At least his food won’t judge him.

Enjolras suggests, “We’re not letting you out anytime soon—you know far too much. And since you’re here anyway and seem to have no qualms about revealing information…”

Combeferre twitches, but Enjolras continues forward. Combeferre doesn’t actively protest, at least—he’s probably more amenable to this compromise with Enjolras than keeping Grantaire holed up, just waiting for something in their precarious situation to tip over. Grantaire has barely been in his company for a week, but already knows Enjolras’s persuasive skills have been honed to an art.

Enjolras finishes, “We value your information and hope this will be a mutually beneficial relationship.”

What’s Grantaire getting out of this? No flogging? No illegal torture techniques? Mutually beneficial, his ass, but between the outside world and this wonderland within four reinforced walls, he’ll pick the lesser of two evils.

Had this been what the coffee was about then, Enjolras wanting to mend bridges with Grantaire in preparation for this? But Enjolras had looked so goddamn happy that night, when he’d given Grantaire that coffee, Grantaire hadn’t even stopped to consider his ulterior motives. He should have known Enjolras doesn’t do anything if it’s not for the cause. And certainly not for Grantaire.

He’s not in the habit of lying to himself, so it hurts, but he’s been expecting the other shoe to drop anyway. He’s protected from the sharp spike of the shoe’s heel, at least somewhat. He can’t look at Enjolras anymore, not without remembering his blush, and the hesitation, and goddammit, had Enjolras made up that human side of him, thinking that if he could lower himself to Grantaire’s level, Grantaire would believe him? Well, it had worked, no surprise there.

Grantaire may be wrapping himself up in this crush, but it’s just an obsession, an addiction to something terrible and unattainable. But that morning, there had been a hint of something more human, and hell, Grantaire is an idiot for even entertaining the thought. In fact, he shouldn’t even be thinking about it now. Should just accept what Enjolras gives him and take it for what it is. Enjolras needs him, and he’s going to be the convenient informant.

Fuck dignity. He’s going to make Enjolras say it again, because hell does it feel nice to be good for something. “With me. You need my help.”

“Not need,” he corrects, “want.”

He wants to say no, but he has nothing except this. He’ll allow himself to be used. It’s not much different from his everyday life anyway. Grantaire grants the two men the barest hint of a nod, and Combeferre lets out a breath Grantaire hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Enjolras is beaming at Grantaire, just a little ray of sunlight when he’s capable of blinding, but it still makes Grantaire want to shrink back into himself. He doesn’t want Enjolras to be happy with him. He doesn’t want him to be happy Grantaire played right into his trap, and damn, he doesn’t need Enjolras smiling at him like that. He feels dirty, like he’s already sold a bit of his soul.

Sticking her phone back into her pocket, Eponine slings an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder and pulls him to her in what looks like a sign of camaraderie but is really just an excuse for her to noogie his side.

“Now that we’re all friends, quick question,” she says. She sidles up to him, nearly forcing him out of his own chair as she dominates half. The grip she has on him is deceptively affectionate. Or maybe not deceptively. He has a feeling it’s all the same when it comes to Eponine.

Grantaire hums in reply.

“Why is there a Cosette Fauchelevent trying to get inside?”

A freckle-faced man sitting at the table’s end flushes red immediately, and his friend—sex dude—pats his hand gently as he tries to keep himself from going into shock. He’s breathing heavily, pants escaping his body in waves, and he avoids Enjolras’s eye like the other man is Medusa himself. To his credit, Enjolras doesn’t back down, and he stands his ground, waiting for Marius to chance a peek.

And chance a peek he does, shaking his brown bangs out of the way to survey the room’s response. The man ducks  his head down immediately when he sees the new eyes trained on him.

It’s all very pathetic, but since all Grantaire can manage is a squeak at the mention of his best friend, he’s really not in a position to judge. “What the hell is Cosette doing here?”

“I don’t know—I was hoping you could tell _me_ ,” Eponine bites back.

“Your new girlfriend,” Enjolras says to Marius, slowly, “wasn’t her name Cosette? Ultimus Fauchelevent’s daughter? ”

Marius’s only response is a whimper.

Cosette hardly ever dates—her father is too restrictive, and boys are more trouble than they’re worth. Grantaire operates under the assumption that no one will ever be good enough for Cosette, and how this scrawny, blushing, freckled man had wormed his way into her heart, Grantaire will never understand. Grantaire has known for a while now that Cosette keeps him away from the few facets of her personal life she can afford to, especially her love life. He plays the role of protective older brother to a tee, and sometimes she needs room to breathe.

But he’d never expected her to mix with Les Amis. Cosette is surprising by nature, but this—

Actually, it would be like Cosette to date someone who disagreed enough with the government to kidnap people.

“She has a gun,” Eponine brings up, and the flippant way Enjolras rolls his eyes has Grantaire rising out of his seat and sprawled halfway across the table to shake some fear into him, before he has the good sense to back down. No doubt they have information on Cosette too, a side effect of associating with Grantaire, but she’s gotten so much flack for being tiny and blonde. She doesn’t need it from a grown-ass man who can pass for a seventeen-year-old girl. Grantaire’s beginning to sense of pattern here, of Enjolras underestimating people who can kick his ass if they so wish.

“That’s very correct, Eponine. Cosette most certainly does have a gun, and she’s not afraid to use it.” Talking about themselves in third person is a habit they’re allowed to punch each other for, but when Grantaire sees Cosette standing in that doorway, fingers curled loosely around a Smith & Wesson, hip cocked, he’s less inclined to reprimand her than run to her in typical musical montage fashion. Her stance may be casual, but every muscle is tense, and Cosette is capable of springing into action in a flash. Grantaire is not the only one to notice, and even Enjolras seems wary of the girl in the floral print summer dress.

“Wasn’t Musichetta supposed to…”

A short, curvy girl with olive skin and unmanageable hair appears in the doorway and says, “Oh, Cosette explained the situation to me. And this has always been too much of a man’s party anyway, so I thought why not?” She links arms with Cosette and they beam at each other.

That’s when Enjolras slams his fists down on the table, jolting Grantaire out of the happy haze building up in his mind. Cosette is okay, well, he knew she was—there’s no reason for her not to be. But he’s anxious if they’re apart for too long, especially after what happened in New Dehli. He still hasn’t forgiven himself. They take care of each other, Grantaire and Cosette. Figures that Enjolras has to ruin the moment.

“Musichetta, you’ve severely compromised the secrecy of Les Amis—“

“Oh, off your high horse you go, Enjolras. Cosette wants to help.”

“What?” Disbelief is evident in Enjolras’s voice.

“What?” Grantaire echoes. At the defiant look in her eyes, Grantaire tries, he really does. “Cosette, this is a fucking _hostage situation_ , you don’t want to be caught up in this. It’s dangerous, and goddammit, have you thought about your father at all? He wants you to live a boring life closeted away from anything that’s going to hurt you, and that’s a goddamn good thing.”

The words sound practiced, and they are. Cosette understands.

“Are we really doing this again?” The hopeful lilt in her voice is unmistakable. They haven’t gone down this route for two years, not since Grantaire lost faith in his father and had his world wrecked into pieces. It goes like this: Grantaire gets an idea, Grantaire warns Cosette that it’s a shit idea and she shouldn’t follow him, Grantaire whisks Cosette off on a quest to bring revolution to the world. It’s very systematic, and they’ve only ever strayed from it once, when Cosette had needed Grantaire’s help to rain shame and public disgrace on her asshole of a biological father where Les Amis had failed.

Tholomyès still cringes every time he comes across Fauchelevent in the political arena. Grantaire’s pretty proud of himself for that one.

“You should go home,” he says.

And then he runs to her, ignores Les Amis’ curious eyes because hell. _Cosette_. He takes her in his arms and spins her around. She punches him in the shoulder.

“What have I said about doing that? You always drop me,” she chastises.

“I do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

Then, in a synchronized motion that springs from years of habit, they’re hugging. Cosette burrows her head into his chest. “I thought—your dad said you were visiting your grandparents, but I know you wouldn’t, since you always take me? And. Well, you love Nana’s brownies, and she always makes more when I’m there, and so. I just _knew_ , you know? That something was off?”

“Since when do you have a boyfriend?”

“Since you don’t really care anyway. You’re just mad I never told you.”

“He’s an extremist political activist.”

“He’s just their friend. And anyway, you’re Grantaire, and you’re my best friend, aren’t you? Obviously, I can only form intimate relationships with people who are slightly offbeat.”

When they’ve had their fill of hugging. Cosette turns back to Les Amis and says, “So, I sincerely hope that you haven’t done anything bad to Grantaire this past week.”

Marius jumps out of his seat and is rushing towards his girlfriend before he can think better of it. “No, we would never—“

Grantaire rubs Cosette’s arm comfortingly. “No, it’s okay. It’s not really a hostage situation, unless most hostages get put in pink bedrooms and dragged to planning meetings.”

Enjolras looks slightly miffed at his dismissive tone, but Grantaire really doesn’t have time to apologize for that stab in the ego and reassure him that he’s a very scary kidnapper who has his hostages quaking in their boots. “Marius, did you tell her where to find us?”

“Of course not!”

Cosette holds up a hand before Enjolras can speak again. “He’s telling the truth—he didn’t do anything. I just have amazing deduction skills—and no, before you ask, I’m not telling you. A girl has to have some secrets.”

She finds her way into a chair and drops her gun onto the table, surrendering herself to Les Amis’ mercy, weaponless and defenseless. The move is casual, but Grantaire has had years of practice deciphering Cosette, so he can detect the nervous twitch of her hands and the way she can’t seem to meet anyone’s eye. Marius places a hand on her shoulder. She blushes deep red at the slightest touch, and oh, that’s why Grantaire’s been kept out of the loop on this whole Marius thing.

“So. Most politicians are assholes, I agree. And you want to take them down. Protests didn’t work, so your form of sabotage is a little more covert, threatening people and things dearest to the shitty leaders who dominate government, publicizing their secrets. Great. We seem to have a common goal.”

Enjolras has to throw his shoulders back and brace himself for this unbalance of power. “Yes, but—“

“But Les Amis’ reputation is _terrible_. You’re effective, of course. You hack, you coerce, you bribe people to offer up information politicians don’t want found out. But you don’t reach a wide enough audience, and truth be told, no one takes you seriously. Not after the Tholomyès incident. So you decide to go for drastic measures, you capture the son of Senator Gabriel Grantaire. But that doesn’t work out for you either because, hello, politicians are assholes and Grantaire’s father is no exception.”

Lips pursed, Enjolras says, “That about sums it up.”

“Any reason why you have a vendetta against Patron-Minette?”

Combeferre shoots Eponine a quick glance, she gives a small shake of her head almost immediately. Cosette takes a moment to run her eyes over Eponine, taking in every detail she can. The corner of her eye crinkles as she examines the other woman. “Eponine…Thenardier? I remember you.”

Eponine gives her a wry smile. “I was wondering whether you would recognize me.”

“Are your parents still fostering children?”

There’s a beat before Eponine answers, “Yes.”

Cosette nods, resigned. Grantaire remembers Cosette offhandedly mentioning her childhood once or twice, but she doesn’t like talking about it, and Grantaire understands demons. Maybe that’s why they fit so well together, two people who keep the dark corners of their minds locked up, even refusing themselves access. “Then I’m definitely helping.”

Enjolras clears his throat, redirecting the attention back to him. He’s lost some of his indignation, and he seems merely curious now—Eponine’s silent approval must go a long way, and Grantaire has to wonder how Eponine factors into Les Amis’ hierarchy. “How do you propose you do that?”

“Remember what happened with Felix Tholomyès?”

“But—that was you?” Combeferre’s voice borders on worshipful. “I thought his daughter’s name was Euphrasie.”

“Cosette’s a nickname.”

Euphrasie Tholomyès—no one had ever found out the last name she goes by—is a legend in anyone’s book, and for Les Amis, she must be a saint, taking him down when they couldn’t. If the conservative politician had been surprised when his illegitimate daughter showed up unannounced at his wedding, that was nothing compared to the surprise of the voting public. When the story of Cosette’s late mother Fantine had come out, piece by missing piece, Cosette forcing her adoring fans to wait with bated breath for every new development, Tholomyès’s name had already effectively become obsolete in the political scene.

Cosette continues, “I know sabotage, but more importantly, I know how to make people _listen._ That story spread over the news in five minutes. Les Amis have nowhere near that much publicity. I can help with that.”

“I thought it was a bit overly dramatic myself,” Enjolras says.

“Says the guy who just punched Alexandre Belcourt at a debutante ball.”

A hint of a smile tugs at Enjolras’s lips, and he gives Cosette a sharp nod, the only outward sign of approval he’s willing to dole out.

“And,” she barrels forward, “if this works and you effectively go public, you’ll let Grantaire go. You’re accomplishing nothing by keeping him here anyway.”

Before Grantaire can protest that he can negotiate his own terms, Enjolras says, “Deal.” That’s it, then. Grantaire’s fate sealed, hinged on Cosette’s ability to wow, and he doesn’t even have a say. The decisions of his superiors go right over his head.

Cosette throws in another condition, tied together with a neat little bow. “Oh, and I want to stay here. You all live here don’t you? On the upper floors? When Marius said he was staying with Courfeyrac, I assumed he meant at a flat, but I want to make sure nothing bad will happen to Grantaire.”

Now Enjolras just looks exasperated. “We won’t do anything bad to him, I promise.”

“I want to stay.”

Enjolras is about to protest again, but suddenly, Saint-Just is winding around his legs, turning Enjolras ten times less assertive and forty times more adorable. He scoops the cat up and places it in his lap, and it sits there, purring, as he runs his fingers through its tabby fur.

Grantaire tries to shut himself up, he swears, but he can’t resist a little mocking. “I never imagined the leader of Les Amis would own a cat.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and pulls Saint-Just closer, shielding him from Grantaire’s inquisitiveness. “He’s Courfeyrac’s. He just likes me better, especially when Robespierre refuses to play with him.”

Grantaire bets Enjolras named them himself, oh my God, he’s crushing on a complete nerd. Albeit a nerd with a switch that turns him into a scary political activist with no filter, but a nerd nonetheless.

“What? No Danton? No Desmoulins? No Marat?”

The hint of a smile is almost a full one now, and Enjolras regards Grantaire with something close to amusement. Grantaire shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unable to keep a traitorous part of himself from glowing under Enjolras’s acceptance. It’s not real, and Enjolras is an asshole, yes he is. “I was afraid Robespierre would order Danton’s arrest and not speak up at Desmoulins’s trial, and I wouldn’t be able to give Marat a bath without worrying about history repeating himself.”

That was a joke. Enjolras had legitimately made a joke. Les Amis seem unsurprised, but Grantaire’s just about bowled over in shock.

Sex dude—Courfeyrac, Grantaire’s assuming—butts in. “And we’re not getting another cat, they all flock to Enjolras. Swear to God, he may not be a people whisperer when it’s one-on-one, but he’s a cat-whispering god.”

Robespierre tentatively ambles his way over to Cosette, butting his nose against her sneakers curiously. She tenses in surprise, but relaxes as he continues nosing at her shoe.

“Wow, Robespierre likes you too?” Courfeyrac screeches. “He doesn’t like anyone but Enjolras. You filthy _cat-whisperers, you.”_

Pulling Robespierre into her lap, Cosette sticks her tongue out at Courfeyrac. The cat settles down contentedly, and he purrs when Cosette scratches his ears.

“So,” she says. It’s a question, but watching her now, bound intimately with the group through the affection of a cat, Les Amis halfway in love with her, who can deny Cosette what she wants?

Enjolras sighs, knowing it’s a lost battle. Not knowing whether it was a battle he was truly fighting in the first place. “You can share with Marius, second floor, third door down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of curiosity (I can't promise I'll deliver, but I'll definitely take this into consideration), do you prefer longer chapters and slower updates or shorter chapters and faster updates?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [cossetcosette](http://cossetcosette.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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